Basterdly Interludes
by Blood Trillium
Summary: 12 ficlets about the Basterds on their mission in France.  Action, angst, humor, romance, it's all here.  Donny and Wicki featured, a fair bit of Stiglitz, Utivich, and Raine as well.
1. You Can Tell The World

**Author's note: ****This is the first fic of a planned series, and I should explain where it comes from. My favorite CD in my (modest) music collection is Simon and Garfunkel's Wednesday Morning, 3 AM. Listening to it can make me cry, if I'm in the right mood. And it's beautiful. Etc etc *insert more gushing here*. Anyway, it's my favorite, and I've thought in the past that it might be interesting to build a fic project around it somehow. Then I saw Inglourious Basterds recently for the first time and things seemed to fit- so here goes. It's kind of a challenge for myself. There are 12 songs, so 12 shortish fics will be coming. They will be related and chronological, but (I think) will be able to stand alone as well. Plots that I have in mind now tend to be Donny- and Wicki-centric, but this may change as I write. Feedback welcome- I've never written in a WWII setting before at all, so this is rather new to me.**

**Rating: T for violence and lots of bad language, including ethnic slurs, etc. Possibly sexuality, smoking, and/or drinking in the future, but none at the moment.**

**Here we go…**

**You Can Tell the World**

_Oh, you can tell the world about this,_

_You can tell the nation about that._

_Tell 'em what the master has done,_

_Tell 'em how the gospel has come,_

_Tell 'em how the victory's been won._

The first time they did it was nerve-wracking.

Sgt. Donny Donowitz could still remember how it had felt. The fluttering nervousness in his stomach as they waited. The anger that was there, too, as the jeep came around the bend and he heard the four Gestapo agents in it speaking German, chatting easily to each other, laughing. This was different than Italy. This time, it was just him, and Lt. Raine, and seven other men, and they were fuck-knew-how-many miles behind the enemy lines, and they were there to be cruel. They were there to scare the living shit out of the krauts, and it started now.

Right now.

On the road, the jeep slowed, the tone of the German voices changed. They had seen Wicki, up ahead, waving them down. Wicki spoke the language, so he was the bait, for today.

The jeep ground to a halt, gravel crunching under the tires.

Wicki said something. The officer in the passenger seat answered back, a question. And from the bushes, Raine gave the signal.

After that, Donny wasn't nervous anymore.

He didn't really remember closing the distance between the bush he had been crouching behind and the jeep. He did remember grabbing the officer in the passenger seat by the shoulders and hauling him bodily over the top of the door, and kneeing him in the head on the way down. He remembered Lt. Raine taking on the driver- he had grabbed the man by the sandy brown hair, yanked his head back, slit his throat, and then reached over and shut the jeep off all in the same motion, in the blink of an eye. The driver slumped forward, gurgling and twitching. Donny went for the nearer man in the back seat, but Omar and Kagan were already yanking him out, and Zimmerman and Smitty were taking care of the guy from the front seat.

That left one more German in the back, a thin, clerkish-looking man. Raine opened the door on that side and hauled him out too, his hands and sleeve sticky with the blood of the driver. The kraut fell to his knees, hands up, gibbering in fear, and Donny paced around the jeep to stand over him with his gun, and he had gloated- yeah, he had gloated and felt satisfied to see the guy practically shitting his pants.

How many Jews had that one killed, after all? Or shoved onto trains to die?

In the end, of course, Raine had let him go. Let him go with a broken wrist (courtesy of Raine himself), and likely broken ribs (courtesy of Donny), and the sight of his comrades being scalped burned into his mind (courtesy of Smitty, Omar, and Zimmerman, and all sloppy, messy jobs, as it was the first time they'd ever done it), but let him go. And he went, crying and limping down the road the way they had come from. The Basterds stripped the uniforms from the bodies, to use later, took everything they might need from the jeep, and somebody carved Fuck You Krauts, and a Star of David or two, into the paint on the jeep's hood, and that was their first mission, accomplished.

They felt good. Proud. Keyed up, laughing over nothing in the aftermath of it. Wild and unstoppable. It wasn't until after that that Donny started preferring his baseball bat to all other weapons, or that Raine took up carving swastikas into the foreheads of the chosen survivors, but that was the start of it.

They were here. They had done this. They were Jews, and they were basterds, and they were going to keep doing it, all the way to Berlin if they fucking had to.

And that Gestapo asshole, cradling his limp wrist and breathing around the pain of cracked ribs, could go tell the world.

**Next up: Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream**


	2. Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream

**Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream**

_Last night I had the strangest dream_

_I ever dreamed before._

_I dreamed the world had all agreed_

_To put an end to war._

_I dreamed I saw a mighty room._

_The room was filled with men._

_And the paper they were signing said_

_They'd never fight again._

Donny Donowitz sat up suddenly, blinking.

It was dawn. The forest was gray-green, and there was a bird singing somewhere nearby. The other men, rounded bundles in their sleeping bags, lay around the damp charcoal circle of last night's small fire. One was snoring; that'd be Kagan. A couple were stirring. Sakowitz and Wicki weren't there; they were out on watch. Straight in front of Donny, across the remains of the fire, Lt. Raine was sitting cross-legged, chewing on a bite of breakfast and contemplating the blade of his big knife.

"Ya look like you've seen a damn ghost," he remarked, eying his sergeant skeptically. Donny blinked again, and shook his head.

"No- no, I…I dreamed that Hitler gave it all up," he blurted out suddenly. "Yeah, there was like...this big conference, or something, and Roosevelt and Churchill and everybody at this big table, and Hitler just stood up and said that was it, he was fucking giving up. And they all signed the papers and everything."

Raine snorted, not quite laughter.

"Well, it ain't happened yet, I can tell you that much." He swallowed whatever had been tucked into his cheek and picked up his sharpening stone, which he drew across the blade of his knife as he continued.

"Listen, Donowitz, next time you bash some sonofabitch's head in, I want you to yell a little afterwards."

"Yell what?" Donny felt he was several steps behind Raine's train of thought; it was a common feeling.

"Hell, I don't care. You can yell about the fucking Red Sox if you wanna, they won't understand anyway. It's just to scare 'em. You're gettin' a particular reputation, and we wanna take advantage of that." Raine drew the stone across the blade of the knife thoughtfully, then held up the blade for minute inspection in the growing light. Donny nodded; he thought it sounded a bit crazy, but then again, taking a damned baseball bat along with him to Europe had seemed at least as crazy, and it had worked out pretty well.

"Yeah, I can do that." He smirked reflectively as he glanced down at the bat, which lay alongside his sleeping bag. Yeah- he was glad he had brought it.

To Donny's right, Smithson Utivich stirred and sat up, too, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He had been listening, apparently, and now he rolled his eyes in Donny's direction.

"Sarge could yell about the Red Sox all day long. Bore the krauts to death, probably."

"Ah, shut up, Utivich, just because you don't appreciate baseball."

"What's to appreciate?"

It was an old argument. Donny aimed a playful fake swing at Utivich, who ducked and swatted back. Raine chuckled dryly, then shoved his knife back into the sheath with finality.

"Rise and shine, boys!" he announced, louder, prodding the bundles on either side of him. "That patrol's comin' through here in two hours, and we are gonna be ready for 'em."

The men stirred with sleepy _hmmphs _and yawns. They had had a late night. Donny rose to his feet and nudged a couple of the slower ones with his foot, and then, satisfied that all were awake, headed off for the nearest bushes to take a piss.

When he stopped, surrounded by green leaves on three sides, with the chatter of the men behind him replacing the birdsong in his ears, he remembered his dream. Or more accurately, he remembered what he had told Raine about his dream. _A big table…Roosevelt and Churchill and everyone…Hitler fucking giving up. _But try as he might, he couldn't really call the images to his mind again. They slipped away like phantoms as soon as he tried to conjure them.

**Next: Bleecker Street**


	3. Bleecker Street

**Bleecker Street**

_Fog's rolling in off the East River Bank._

_Like a shroud it covers Bleecker Street,_

_Fills the alleys where men sleep,_

_Hides the shepherd from the sheep._

It took the four of them- Raine, Donny, Omar, and Hirschberg- too long to find the rendezvous point.

The moment the sun had begun to set that evening, a fog thick enough to rival any in London had rolled off the river and smothered the alleys and squares of the town. The streets were marked, but finding the one called _Blicher, _or whatever the hell it was called, had still been hard- the street signs were nearly invisible even though they were only about a foot above Donny's head. Still, they had gotten there, and their contact was waiting for them, with the correct password and countersign, something rather pointless about sheep.

The most surprising thing about their contact was that she was a woman.

She led them into the nearest building- some kind of office- through a side door that looked little-used. There were desks and filing cabinets around a big open space, and the woman flicked on a small desk lamp, shedding a tiny puddle of yellow light. A nod from Raine sent Hirschberg to the front window to keep watch there. Omar stayed by the door they had come in, and Donny never took his eyes off their contact. It was a practiced system by now.

So Donny watched the woman as she leaned against the desk next to the lamp. She was young, about his age, maybe, but dressed older, in sober gray, with sensible shoes. She was also a blonde; her hair was pulled severely back from her face, but Donny could tell it was thick and curly. She'd be pretty if she bothered to dress like it. And she wasn't nervous, despite being in a room with four armed men.

"They send you to do this alone?" Raine asked skeptically, mirroring Donny's own thoughts. The woman's gaze hardened a touch.

"I'm not alone." Which meant there was someone upstairs or in another room, listening in. That, or she was bluffing. "You still intend to free Hugo Stiglitz?" she asked Raine baldly. No frills, right down to business.

"That's why we're here." Raine was equally direct.

"Good. My people agree to give you information for this. Here." She unclasped her purse and drew out a folded sheaf of paper, which she handed to Raine. Donny glanced over as Raine unfolded it. Two pages of drawings, another covered with dense writing. Raine thrust them beneath the desk lamp to get a better look. Donny kept his eyes on the contact.

"Plan of the prison, in and out, and guard and food schedules. It is good, guaranteed," she explained

as Raine hmmphed in the small circle of light. She had a sweet little rounded nose- cute.

"All right," Raine said finally, satisfied. He folded the papers once more and tucked them into his chest pocket. The woman nodded in response, and drew another, smaller piece of paper out of her purse.

"Also I am to be your contact if you need our further assistance. Ask for Marguerite at this address." She handed over the smaller paper, which Raine also put away, then stood and took a step away from the desk. She glanced over at Donny, as if noticing for the first time that he was looking at her. She seemed uncertain for the first time since she had appeared.

"Is it true that you are all Jews?" she asked suddenly. Raine was amused.

"Every last one- 'cept me." A smile, a bit condescending, hovered around the corners of his mouth. Marguerite's gaze slid sideways and up, back to Donny, a piercing, inscrutable look.

"And are you the Bear Jew that they talk about?" she demanded, mincing no words.

Donny couldn't help it. He burst out laughing, loud enough to make Hirschberg jump.

"Shit, Lieutenant, did you hear that? She knows me! I'm famous!" He threw out his arms expansively, and now Ulmer and Hirschberg chuckled, too. Marguerite just looked like she didn't know what to make of any of it. Raine rolled his eyes.

"Shut it, Sergeant. We gotta go. Thank your people for me, miss- we'll be in touch." Raine gave the barest nod of courtesy to Marguerite, then beckoned to Hirschberg and Ulmer, and gave Donny a sharp _come along_ tap on the shoulder as he started for the back door where they had come in. Donny hovered over Marguerite for a moment longer, favoring her with a broad, bordering-on-cheesy grin that was his usual way of trying to charm the fairer sex. It sometimes worked.

"So I'm Sergeant Donowitz, but you can call me Donny. And you…"

"Hm?" Marguerite glanced significantly toward the door, where the other three men were already headed, then back to Donny. Not an opportunity to chat, and she wasn't sure of the big, dark-haired man's intentions. Raine, from the doorway, made an inarticulate growl that clearly meant _come on!_

"…have real pretty hair," Donny finished, unexpectedly. His smile grew wider, he looked Marguerite up and down ever so briefly- and then he was out the door with the others, but as he left, he thought he saw the woman put up a hand and pat her hair self-consciously, her eyebrows arched in surprise. He felt proud to have disconcerted her a bit- and he felt like he might like the chance to do it again.

**Next: Sparrow (will feature Stiglitz)**


	4. Sparrow

**Sparrow**

_And who will take pity in his heart?_

_And who will feed a starving sparrow?_

Hugo Stiglitz didn't talk much.

Part of the reason, of course, was that his English was rudimentary. But even in German, to Wicki, he had little to say. He had been more than willing to join the Basterds, and expressed admiration for their methods and reputation, but he kept to himself, even when the other men tried to tried to draw him into conversation, and looked to his weapons with a care that bordered on obsession, even by Basterds standards. He was always sitting off on the outskirts of the group, and giving everyone else suspicious, wary looks. His eyes were empty, unreadable. He did not laugh.

The fact was, Stiglitz was fucking weird. Though he had reason to be.

"They did shit to him in that prison," Wicki murmured, shaking his head as he glanced over at Stiglitz that evening. They had jumped a convoy of about twenty Germans that day, one of their more ambitious projects so far, and only their second that included Stiglitz. The Germans, except for one, were dead, shot and cut and beaten and scalped. The Basterds were alive.

"Yeah?" Zimmerman perked up. He was curious, with an ear for gossip. Wicki shrugged.

"Whipped him." Zimmerman nodded. They all knew that- they had seen the scars.

"And other shit- he won't talk about it, but he kinda hinted. It must have been bad." Wicki resisted the urge to glance over at Stiglitz again.

"Shit like...?" Zimmerman trailed off. Wicki shook his head again.

"I dunno. Hey, Sarge, you cracked that thing yet?" That was to Donny, who was sitting not far away, looking over his bat.

"No way. If there's a Nazi skull harder than this, I have yet to fucking meet it. And if I do, I'm gonna bash it in anyway." Laughter all around. Donny set down the bat, satisfied, stood, and stripped off his undershirt. He held it up, squinted at the bloodstains on it, and turned, heading towards the stream which was not far downhill from their camp.

"Back in a second," he informed the others. Utivich poked the big spoon into the pot hanging over the fire.

"Chow's ready," he pronounced, and that set off a flurry of getting bowls and spoons and parceling out the contents of the pot. Today's Germans had had good food with them- canned stew with plenty of meat, and bread that, amazingly, appeared to be relatively fresh. There was plenty, enough for seconds, too. Utivich put aside generous bowlfuls for the two men who were on watch. Donny wandered back from the stream and hung his rinsed-out undershirt neatly over a tee branch to dry. It had been a good day.

"Damn, these krauts had some good food," mumbled Sakowitz around a mouthful of bread.

"Wonder how they got it."

"Our chow now."

"You're a poet, Hirschy."

Utivich looked over at Stiglitz. He was eating too, a bit separated from the others as usual, not speaking. There was motion in the grass on the far side of him, a little brown bird, hopping. A sparrow, Utivich thought. Not that he knew birds.

Stiglitz broke off a fingertip-sized chunk of bread and tossed it to the diminutive creature.

Utivich blinked, not entirely sure he had really seen that at all. Stiglitz had...huh? But the bird snatched it up and Stiglitz threw another, and it had to be real.

Utivich blinked again. Beside him, Zimmerman paused, spoon hovering over his bowl, and muttered "What the hell?"

And Stiglitz looked up suddenly, with his blue eyes that were so blank, so dead of any feeling, met Utivich's gaze, and stared.

_Shit, _Utivich thought, as foreboding dropped like a rock into his stomach. Hugo Stiglitz was going to stand up, come over here, and beat the crap out of him for having seen him in a moment of weakness. Shit, shit. Should he throw up his hands and apologize? Jump to his feet and be ready to defend himself? Utivich honestly hadn't felt quite this scared in…well, ages. And by now everyone had noticed that something tense was happening, and were shifting uncomfortably, looking from one to the other and wondering what it was.

Stiglitz took a breath- and quite suddenly, turned to Wicki and let loose a stream of rapid German. A couple of mouths around the campfire actually opened in surprise- it was the most words they had ever heard Stiglitz string together at one time.

Wicki blinked.

"He says…" Wicki shook his head, as though doubting his own ears. "He says that while he was in the prison, there was a little bird that would come and sit on his windowsill sometimes. He thinks it had a nest nearby. Stiglitz would leave breadcrumbs on the sill so it would stay a bit. For the company." Wicki broke off.

No one said anything else. No one was quite sure what to say. A couple of the men slowly lifted bites of food to their mouths. Donny cocked his head and almost squinted at Stiglitz, and you could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

Unexpectedly, it was Zimmerman who broke the silence. And more than that, he cracked a smile as he beckoned Stiglitz closer, further into the circle around the fire.

"Come on. We're company too. Here, try some of this, good stuff." He held out a flask of liquor, taken off one of the officers he had killed that day, encouraging. Everyone watched.

Stiglitz's lip twitched. He was still for a moment- and then, creakily, as if unused to moving, he stood up, moved closer to the fire, and sat down again. Zimmerman's smile grew a bit bigger. Stiglitz reached out, accepted the flask with a stiff nod of thanks, and sipped.

"Good," Hugo Stiglitz pronounced with a grunt.

A babble of conversation broke out then, everybody talking at once. Some wanted to try the liquor too, and some wanted Wicki to translate some question they had for Stiglitz, and Zimmerman started pointing to things and telling Stiglitz the English words for them, and before they knew it, carefully stored photos of girlfriends and pinups had come out of pockets and backpacks, and Stiglitz could probably have learned dozens of terms for breasts that day, if he had remembered them all. And everyone continued to comment on the food, too, and how good it was, and how Utivich was such a good cook, he'd make somebody a great wife someday. And Hugo Stiglitz still didn't talk much, but that was the first day he had really felt like part of the group.

Utivich, grinning through the chatter, took a sip from the flask and passed it on, as it was now going around the circle. As he handed it on to Hirschberg, he saw movement in the grass again, not far away. That sparrow again, hanging around. Cute little thing, in its way.

Utivich looked down at the last bite of bread in his hand- then tossed it lightly towards the sparrow.

"Hey, I like birds as much as anyone," he explained to Hirschberg with a shrug and a laugh.

**Next: Benedictus (yes, a religious song in Latin…for a story about Jewish characters. Eep! Still tossing around ideas for this one!)**


	5. Benedictus

**Benedictus**

_Benedictus qui venit in nomine domini._

Hugo Stiglitz hadn't done this in a very, very long time.

He dipped his finger in the holy water and crossed himself as he started up the church aisle, looking discreetly from side to side as he went. The choir was singing, up in the loft; they stopped, than started again. Practicing. The clear, sweet notes of their music echoed off the lofty ceiling and bare, stone-and-glass walls. A few people dotted the pews, praying. Confession didn't start for another hour. It was peaceful, a noble place, and filled with sunlight filtered through colored glass.

Stiglitz felt deeply uncomfortable.

The Mass was a routine of his childhood, deeply ingrained. He had known every motion, every word. He had felt the presence of God, back then. But he had only been a child.

Things were different, now. There was no God, and Germany- more than just Germany- was under the thumb of the devil. And Hugo Stiglitz was not a child anymore.

There- he had spotted the one he was looking for. A woman with curly blonde hair, pulled severely back, a neat, small hat over it, and the dark brown dress he had been told she'd be wearing. She was sitting in a pew, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes downcast, the very picture of pious reverie. Stiglitz genuflected at the pew behind her, and slid in, stopping when he was about three feet away. He put down the kneeling bench and knelt, folding his hands before him, and waited for her to notice him.

She did. Her eyes flicked to him minutely, than back to her lap.

For a moment, she did nothing. Then she opened her purse, drew out a folded paper, and pushed it soundlessly towards him across the bench, till it was right in front of him. After a suitable interval, neither of them looking at each other, he reached forward and picked it up.

A quick glance before putting it in his pocket, but he did not bother to decipher the words. That wasn't his job, and Marguerite's information was always good. That was what Lieutenant Raine had told him, and he believed it. She had good connections, or her connections had connections, even if none of the Basterds knew exactly who they were.

Another long moment passed. The choir sang, stopped, than sang again. Stiglitz recognized the words- _Benedictus qui venit in nomine domini. _Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.

What about he- or she- who came in the name of freedom, and revenge?

Or of a gift?

Because Stiglitz had something for Marguerite, too. He reached into another pocket and pulled out a small package, wrapped in a plain cloth, smaller than the palm of his hand. He set that down on the bench in front of him and waited for Marguerite to pull it towards her.

She did, and gave him just a bare glance back. She hadn't been expecting to get anything, just to deliver. Stiglitz nodded his head, moving barely an inch. _Go ahead and open it._

She did. The scent of it wafted up to her even before she had the cloth all the way unfolded, but even given that, she could not believe her eyes when she saw it.

Lying on the cloth was a small, square bar of soap. _Real _soap. Manufactured soap. Impossible-to-get, flowery-scented, clean, luxurious, perfumed, soap.

Marguerite's eyes flicked to Stiglitz again as she quickly folded the cloth back over her prize, wider, almost alarmed. Stiglitz took a quick look around; judging that no one was watching, he bowed his head towards her and whispered.

"From Sergeant Donowitz. He…found it."

She nodded, not looking at Stiglitz. _ Found _ meant took, of course- took in one of their raids. She didn't care a bit. She was already making plans to share it with her cousin at home, and the other two women in their "group". She was picturing steaming water, heavy with the flowery, feminine scent, rich bubbles on her washcloth, the impossible luxury of _really clean._ It was no less than enchanting.

Stiglitz's mouth twitched. Her not-quite-hidden surprise, the hungry, longing look she gave the soap, was gratifying. He could see why Donny was interested in her. He was too cynical to share it, but he understood it. He had used to feel that way about women, too.

"He also says you have pretty hair," Stiglitz added abruptly, before moving to sit back on the bench. He was done here.

Marguerite turned and faced him, giving him a sharp look. She took a breath, and Stiglitz thought at first he was about to be reprimanded. But the woman seemed to change her mind. When she did speak, it was calmly, and barely above a whisper. The soap had disappeared into her purse.

"Thank the Sergeant, and tell him I hope he keeps safe."

Stiglitz nodded his assent, and was gone.

**Next: The Sound of Silence**


	6. The Sounds of Silence

**Warning: Heavier violence in this chapter, though I don't think it's enough to warrant an M rating.**

**The Sound of Silence**

_And the sign said the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls._

"So she liked the soap, huh?"

It was about the fifth time Donny Donowitz had asked that.

"Yeah. She did. I told you." Irritation showed in Stiglitz's voice, but it didn't faze Donny. The sergeant just broke into a big grin- again.

"Wow, she could be scrubbin' up with it right now. Imagine that. Rubbin' that soap all over those beautiful tits." Donny rolled his eyes in appreciation, and got chuckles and teasing in response.

"You haven't really seen her tits, Sarge."

"No, but I can imagine 'em."

"She's probably in bed." Hirschberg was right; it was almost midnight.

"Hell, in bed, after scrubbin' up with that soap? Even fuckin' better." Donny tipped his head back against the cold stone wall of the tunnel, eyes closed, a smile plastered to his face. He was content- his gift had been well received, the ever-reserved Marguerite had even had a nice message for him, and thanks to her information, a small group of SS men was about to be very unpleasantly surprised. They thought they were about to catch a couple of on-the-run Jews using this tunnel under the railroad track as a place to sleep. In reality, the two fugitives had been quickly shuffled elsewhere by Marguerite's Resistance pals, and the SS men were about to find the Basterds instead. It was perfect.

Donny idly tightened his grip on his bat. He pictured getting a grip on a soap-scented Marguerite. He waited. So did everybody else. Donny, along with Stiglitz, Hirschberg, Kagan, and Utivich were in the tunnel, hidden in shadows. Raine, Wicki, Ulmer, Sakowitz, and Zimmerman were hidden in the bushes on the other side, ready to follow the SS men in once they arrived and complete the trap. All was quiet now. There was no sound from the buildings of the town, no train chugging above. Water dripped somewhere, echoing hollowly. It was like the sound of silence itself.

A buzz from the distance, an engine. Headlight beams swept around a corner, two blocks away, then shut off as the engine cut. A long, long, long moment of silence. Then the car started again, and moved away. Someone else might have been fooled. But the Basterds knew the SS men were coming.

"Showtime," whispered Donny, and they all readied their weapons, barely moving, silent. The tunnel was long for just passing under a train track, and curved subtly, so that even though there were town streets and buildings on either side of it, you couldn't clearly see what was happening inside from either end. "A traffic hazard" the note from Marguerite's contact had rather prissily called it. Which meant fuck all to the Basterds. They were just there to kill some Nazis, right in the middle of town.

Moving shadows, quiet footsteps, more faint water drips. Six of them were coming. Donny and the rest of his group, pressed flat against the wall of the tunnel, held their breaths as the SS men advanced. The Germans were careless, clumped up a bit more than they should be. And they were just about in the middle of the tunnel, which was where…

"Now!" Donny barked, and he jumped forward, swinging the bat solidly into the stomach of the leading Nazi. Bone crunched, and the man doubled over and fell with barely more than an _oof_- though Donny hit him again anyway, once he was down. Stiglitz had already grabbed the second man by the shoulder and stuck his knife in his gut, then slashed across his throat, while Kagan had tackled the third-nearest man and dropped him to the ground, where he was stabbing him viciously in the back. Raine and the other half of the Basterds had already charged up from the rear, and a fourth Nazi went down under Wicki's knife, his throat slit from ear to ear. The two others found themselves thrown to the ground, too, kicked and pummeled by the rest of the Basterds. There was no shooting- Raine had ordered quiet.

Though not complete quiet. Raine nonchalantly strode to one of the still-living Nazis, and yanked him his to his feet by his collar, Hirschberg and Zimmerman pinning his arms. The German could hardly stand- he hunched painfully half over, and he was sobbing fearfully.

"Came to find some Jews, did ya? Kill some, maybe? Well, here's one who's gonna kill you." Raine spoke as Donny stepped forward, six feet of well-muscled menace, into the meager twilight from the tunnel entrance, bat over his shoulder; Hirschberg and Zimmerman released the German's arms and shoved him down to his knees, and he went, still crying and gibbering half-formed phrases. Several of the men laughed.

"_Der Bar Jude_," put in Wicki with a small smile, mostly for the benefit of the other Nazi, who was pinned on his stomach with Ulmer and Sakowitz holding him down. Ulmer sat on his hips, holding one of his arms shoved painfully up between his shoulder blades to make sure he didn't try to move too far, and Sakowitz held his hair in a vice grip, making him keep his head turned to watch the unfolding scene, such as he could see it. Utivich and Wicki headed towards the dead, scalping two each with lightning efficiency. Doing it in the dark was easy now.

"Murdering Nazi fucker," Donny's voice was quiet, almost soothing, and he lifted the bat from his shoulder and lowered it gently, so gently, to the side of the SS man's head.

The SS man sobbed and cringed away from it. He no longer attempted to speak, just clutched his middle and hunched in despair.

And Donny pulled back and swung. He hit the Nazi's head square on, making him flop crunchily to the tunnel floor, and within three more solid blows had transformed him to a mangled mess. No yelling this time- just a quick, efficient beating. Done. Donny stepped back, panting; he was covered in sweat, and filled with the wild energy that always suffused him after doing this. He felt like he could run a hundred miles. He smirked down at the dim, unmoving shape on the tunnel floor. One Nazi down. A lot more to go, all the way to fucking Berlin, but he could take them, no problem.

It felt good to be the Bear Jew. He had thought the name was pretty ridiculous at first, but it felt good.

There was a sudden patter of footsteps at the end of the tunnel. Sakowitz clamped a hand over the pinned Nazi's eyes, and made him turn his head toward the wall again, while the other Basterds readied weapons. A flashlight switched on, making everyone blink and squint, and then a familiar voice spoke.

"It's me."

Marguerite? What the fucking hell was she doing here? Donny glanced at Raine, who evidently wondered the same thing. The footsteps and the light came nearer, and then suddenly, Marguerite was standing there, flanked by two men in plain civilian clothes. They each carried a roundish container that Donny had trouble identifying.

"We're just here to decorate," Marguerite said matter-of-factly, and stepped past Raine without so much as a by-your-leave. The men, after curious glances at the Basterds, followed, and as the three of them turned toward the walls of the tunnel, Donny realized what the containers were- paint pots. One of the men had taken a brush out of his coat pocket, the other appeared to be reaching for one.

Raine turned back to the other Basterds with a transparent _what the fuck_ look. Everybody shrugged and eyed each other; no one had known that Marguerite and company were coming.

Raine squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. The partisans had now each selected their portion of wall, and were unscrewing the lids of their paint jars, just as if there weren't five very gory Nazi bodies lying on the floor of the tunnel that they had to step around and past and over.

"Fuck, let's get on with it," Raine muttered, shaking his head and opening his eyes. He strode to the remaining Nazi in two long steps and kicked him in the back.

"Get him up," he ordered Ulmer and Sakowitz, and the two of them manhandled the German up to his knees. Raine crouched down in front of him, "casually" examining the blade of his big knife.

"English?" he asked conversationally.

"_Nein…nein_," he answered, his eyes nervously on the knife. More satisfied chuckles from the men- it was always great to see a Nazi good and scared.

Though Donny, truthfully, was a bit bored. Or at least distracted. He was vibrating with energy; he felt like hitting something again, but there was nothing left to hit. Restlessly he wandered a few steps away from the rest of the group, bat still propped on his shoulder, his sweat drying off his bare arms and giving him a chill. More water dripped, somewhere in the tunnel. Behind him, Raine was starting in on his "you gonna take off that uniform" routine, with Stiglitz translating. Stiglitz hated translating, but Raine insisted that he practice. Wicki couldn't be everywhere at once.

Donny found himself watching Marguerite. Her back was to him, her body swathed in a coat. She stooped neatly, feet together, and set her flashlight end-up on the ground, then opened her paint jar, dipped her brush, and began to paint. Big, bold strokes, in blue. One of the men, about ten feet away from her, was almost done with _France libre_- that Donny could figure out, and the man on the other side of the tunnel was working on a longer phrase with the word _Nazis_ in it.. But he was puzzled as Marguerite's words took shape.

_Jud..._

_Juden tat..._

_Juden taten das._

So what the hell did that mean?

Donny cocked his head to one side, watching her confidently apply the last stroke of paint. Behind him, there was a sudden, thrashing struggle as the surviving Nazi realized what Raine had planned for him and made a last ditch effort to get away. It was short-lived; by the time Donny had turned around, the SS man was on the ground again, with Raine sitting on his chest, one knee on each of his upper arms. Wicki and Sakowitz sat on his legs, and Hirschberg was getting ready to hold his head still.

"Can you even see where you're cuttin' him, Lieutenant?" somebody asked with a laugh.

"Don't worry, he'll be gentle."

"Just you hold still…" Raine bent forward. Stiglitz didn't bother to translate. The prisoner made a strangled noise, but wisely didn't move- that big knife was way too close to his eyes to risk that. His breathing was faster, panicked.

Satisfied that he wasn't needed at the moment, Donny turned back to Marguerite. She was finished, and replacing the lid of the jar; the two men with her seemed to be pretty much done too. They caught up with her and murmured something in French, and all three turned to go. Marguerite turned her head and met Donny's eyes briefly, but she said nothing. She seemed unsure.

Donny took a deep breath and walked over to them.

"So, uh…Marguerite."

"_Oui_?" Her eyebrows arched expectantly, and she stopped in her tracks, despite the impatience of her companions.

"You liked the soap?" It was the only think Donny could think of to say. He flashed her a grin. Marguerite's eyebrows rose further, but look at that! She was smiling!

"Yes. Very much. Thank you." Once more she seemed on the verge of stepping away, and Donny decided this was as good a time as any.

"So ya think…can I come around and see you sometime?"

She stopped again, midstep. One of the men tugged on her arm lightly and said something impatient in French. She nodded.

"_Oui_- I mean yes." A pause. "You know where." She smiled again, a touch wider, maybe, and then she and her two companions turned and were gone.

A few minutes later, the Basterds left the tunnel, too. The surviving Nazi had passed out in the course of having that swastika carved into his head, so they just left him where he was, surrounded by the bloody remains of his fellows, the fresh, bold graffiti, and water-dripping silence. They'd all be found soon enough. The Basterds climbed the steep slope up to the railway bed and walked along it, away from the town. Their rest of their gear was stashed in a well-hidden shallow cave a couple of miles away, and if all looked good, they would likely get some rest there, too.

Donny's good mood continued, even when Raine looked at him like had two heads, after he asked the Lieutenant's permission to see Marguerite.

"What, you mean like a date? You're fucking crazy, Donowitz. This ain't Boston."

"Well, I ain't gonna take her to the fucking movies, am I?" Donny asked cheerfully, and hurried a couple of steps to better catch up with Raine. Some of the other men, sensing an interesting conversation, sidled in a bit closer as they walked.

"I just asked her if I could come see her some time, and she said yes, so…yeah."

Raine snorted, amused.

"So, you're telling me that while you were standin' there with a goddamned bloody baseball bat in your hand, and fucking kraut brains all over your shirt, you asked her out, and she said yes?" Raine threw back his head with a short, harsh bark of laughter. "Ain't no girl safe with you Jewish boys around, is there?"

"It's our cocks," put in Utivich with a giggle.

Hirschberg elbowed him in the ribs and snickered. "Well, she's Resistance, right? The kraut brains part probably makes her all wet."

"That girl back in Nadine, who was all over Stiglitz, she was like that."

"She was weird."

"I didn't notice Stiglitz complaining."

Stiglitz smirked. Donny persisted. He wasn't going to be distracted by irrelevancies, not now. "So, I can go, right? Sometime soon? Right?" He was practically treading on Raine's heels as they turned off the railroad bed and headed into the woods, and Raine inwardly rolled his eyes. There wasn't anyone he'd want at his side in a fight more than Donny Donowitz, but fuck, he could be annoying sometimes.

"All right- fine." Raine pushed a branch out of the way, and it whacked Donny in the face on the way back, but the Sergeant was unperturbed.

"Next time it's your turn off duty, and we're close to wherever she is, you may call on Miss Mar-gurr-reet." His Tennessee drawl made it sound dreadful, but so what?

"But." Raine stopped in his tracks and turned around to confront Donny. The other men filtered around them, though they didn't hurry. They all wanted to hear this.

"Don't fucking screw up. Think with your head, not your goddamned Jewish cock, because I want you alive, not dead. And don't piss Mar-gurr-eet off either, ya hear me? If she decides she can't work with us because you busted her poor little heart, we're gonna miss out on a lotta real good intel. That perfectly clear, Sergeant?" All the men were silent, still, and listening now, but some of them were barely restraining chuckles. Donny's grin was irrepressible.

"Crystal. Sir." His grin broadened, jaunty and cheeky. Still grinning, he threw off a perfect salute, a formality the Basterds hadn't bothered with since they got here, then strolled past Raine to the mouth of the little cave, very content indeed.

**Juden tat das= Jews did this. **

**Next: He Was My Brother**


	7. He Was My Brother

**He Was My Brother**

_He was my brother. Tears can't bring him back to me.  
>He was my brother, and he died so his brothers could be free.<em>

Donny's first "date" with Marguerite was a marvel of simplicity.

He showed up to her door- her back door, very carefully- in the twilight, and she led him inside and introduced him to her cousin, Louise, who was not as pretty as she was, and Louise's husband, Pierre, who was only a little older than Donny, but walked with a heavy limp that suggested an old wound. The four of them exchanged a few pleasantries, Marguerite acting as interpreter when necessary (Louise and Pierre both spoke English, but had a hard time understanding Donny's accent), and then, Donny was informed, it was time to listen to the BBC. He had come, coincidentally, just in time.

Donny watched, interested and a bit bemused, as Pierre maneuvered a cleverly disguised removable panel off the wall of the kitchen, revealing a radio in a hidden cavity beneath. Marguerite pulled up chairs while Louise fiddled with the dial- the curtains were already drawn- and then they all sat down to listen as the station crackled to quiet, staticky life.

It was nice, hearing those cheerful British voices. There were a couple of songs, a comedy skit, another song, a quiz show, and then some news, and immediately, Marguerite and Louise, who had listened and laughed along with Donny to the entertainment, were all business. Out came pencils and paper, and the two women bent their heads and studiously jotted notes, Marguerite occasionally clarifying something to Louise in murmured French. Donny hardly dared to breathe, they were so intent. Pierre, who had been quietly up and down out of his chair throughout the program, stayed mostly over by the window now, discreetly keeping an eye out. It made Donny wonder if he should be doing something, but no one gave him any instructions, and it seemed best to just stay where he was.

After the program was over and the radio safely hidden away again, Louise and Pierre stayed in the kitchen, while Marguerite and Donny adjourned to the living room, with cups of the so-called "coffee" that the French made out of chicory when they didn't have anything decent to drink. Donny couldn't stand the stuff, but he knew when to be polite.

"What do you do with those?" Donny asked quietly, nodding back towards Louise and Pierre, who were now sitting at the kitchen table with their heads close together, comparing the two sets of notes on the radio program, Louise jotting down a few more things in the margins.

"Write it more nicely, and give it to a man who prints a newspaper. Then we help deliver the copies." Marguerite spoke casually, as if it was nothing, and Donny was impressed. Hell, did she blow up trains, too? Donny wouldn't have been a bit surprised if she had said she did.

She sat down on the couch, her blonde curls bobbing around her shoulders- she had her hair down today. Donny sat down too, a strategic distance from her, sipped his "coffee", and hoped she didn't notice the face he made. The stuff tasted like shit, but no way was he telling her that.

"What part of America are you from?" she asked once they were both settled. It was interesting how she talked- her English was excellent, but she placed her words carefully, thinking about them a bit, and her accent made everything sound a bit exotic. Donny loved it.

"Bahston. Can't ya tell? The Lieutenant's always makin' fun of how I talk." He grinned; Marguerite cracked a small smile, and Donny realized she probably didn't have any idea what people from Boston sounded like.

"It's…a little different," she confessed politely, and Donny laughed.

"Ah, you don't have to be nice about it, no one else is. Actually the really weird thing is, I'm not even supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be in the Philippines."

That got her attention, as he had known it would. Her eyebrows shot up.

"Really?"

"Yeah. My brother Joey and me- we're twins, and we both got our orders about the same time. He was supposed to go to Italy, but they were sending me to the fucking Philippines!" Oops- he hadn't meant to say _fuck_ around her, but she didn't seem offended, and there was nothing to do but go on. So he did.

"Well- that was the last place I wanted to go. I knew what the Nazis were doing to our people- the Jews, yeah?- and I just wanted to be here, in Europe, not fucking around on some island." Oops again. Shit. "So I talked to Joey about it, and he said he figured that I was always the one who was better at fighting anyway, so if only one of us got to bash Nazi heads in, it was better if it was me. So…" Donny was proud to see a smile on Marguerite's face in response to his story, which was a pretty damned good one, if he said so himself. Better yet, it was true.

"…we switched. We're identical, so same birthdate, pictures looked the same, we even have the same middle name. We just told our COs that someone in the office must have gotten our first name wrong somehow. They didn't argue- we were there, weren't we?" Donny leaned back against the back of the couch, pleased, and snuck his arm over the back of it, towards Marguerite's shoulders. She chuckled, shaking her head.

"That's amazing. I would never imagine there are two of you." Marguerite rolled her eyes, catching his gaze teasingly sideways.

"There's a lot you never imagined about me." Donny smirked suggestively. Marguerite laughed and ducked her head, embarrassed. Quite satisfied with the effect he was having on her, Donny stretched his arms over his head and "casually" let one fall onto the back of the couch, hovering above Marguerite's shoulder. She studiously ignored it, but made no attempt to avoid it, either.

"What about you? You got brothers? Sisters?"

Marguerite nodded her head, but she had hesitated for a fraction before doing so, and Donny sensed it was a difficult subject.

"One of each. We- and my parents- lived in a small village, quite far from here. I came to stay with my cousins alone."

There was a lot she wasn't saying.

"They, uh...they doing ok?" Donny inched his arm down and settled it lightly around her shoulders, strategically, yeah, but in genuine sympathy, too. She shrugged delicately, and gave him a sideways half-smile.

"I don't really know. To be honest."

"Oh." There was a pause, while Donny pondered what to say.

"I bet one day they'll realize you were really brave. And that you did the right thing."

She glanced up and met his eyes sideways, a quick flash of a saddish smile.

"I hope so."

"They will." Donny made bold to rub the ball of her shoulder lightly. She smiled downward at her lap, not quite looking at him, but he could see that a blush colored her cheeks. Donny was charmed- she was more reticent than most French girls seemed to be, but it was cute. Sexy in its own way. He liked a challenge.

So why not? Donny leaned in and gave her a swift peck of a kiss, on the cheek. Marguerite sat up straight with a start, blushed redder, cleared her throat, and made a sudden move towards the table at the end of the couch, where she grabbed her cup of not-coffee and took a hurried sip.

"What was that for?" she asked, her voice sounding a bit strangled. Donny leaned casually against the back of the couch, arms behind his head, long legs stretched out in front of him, and grinned.

"You looked like you could use some cheering up."

"Um...I just wasn't expecting..." Marguerite sipped at her cup again, giving Donny a suspicious look over the rim of it. He laughed and held his hands up, as if in surrender.

"Aww, come on, come back here. I promise I won't do it again. Unless you ask. I'll kiss you all you want if you ask. Hey, come on, just kidding! Well, no, not really. But...yeah, you know what I mean. C'mere. Here." Donny reached into his pocket and took out a chocolate bar, tore the wrapping at one end, and handed her a piece.

"Have some of this- better than that coffee. Almost as sweet as you." Marguerite blushed furiously, scooted minutely forward and took the chocolate.

"Er...thank you," she stammered. She looked down at the chocolate, back up at Donny...sniffed it...took a tiny nibble...and then set the mug down decisively and popped the rest of the chocolate square whole into her mouth. The thoroughly appreciative look on her face warmed Donny's heart down to his boots.

"Good, yeah? We get 'em in our supply drop every few weeks." He broke off a second square for Marguerite, then took a bite himself, never taking his eyes off her. He wondered how soon he could get away with kissing her again.

"I haven't had chocolate in a long time," she confessed, downing the second square. She had scooted a touch closer to him again, almost within arm-around-shoulders distance, and abandoned the mug on the table behind her. Donny reached into his pocket again.

"Here, have another, for later, and then tell me what pretty Resistance girls like to do in their spare time." He tossed a second foil-wrapped bar at her, and was well pleased when she caught it neatly in midair.

And that was how it went. They talked for a while more, about everything and nothing. Donny stole two more quick kisses over the course of the evening, which he considered a fine start. He left in a very good mood, but when he got back to the place the Basterds were camped, it soon evaporated. There was bad news- very bad news.

Sakowitz had gone missing. He had been on watch, keeping an eye on the area between the camp and the road that passed fairly nearby- too nearby, in hindsight. He had eaten his dinner and gone out, and he had been there when Raine had checked on him halfway through the watch, but then when Utivich went to relieve him an hour and a half later, he had been gone. Gone without a trace- no equipment left behind, no sign of a fight. The road was paved, so there was no way of knowing who had come along it and which way they had gone. The only thing certain was that Sakowitz had disappeared.

They looked for him, of course. They combed the area around their camp in an expanding spiral for a good chunk of that night, and did it again the next day. But it wasn't until the day after that that they had real news. Pierre brought it- Marguerite, he said with his eyes subtly on Donny, was busy elsewhere.

And the news was bad. As bad as it could possibly be, in fact. Sakowitz was dead.

He had been picked up by a truck-full of German soldiers on their way somewhere. Pierre didn't have real details on how it had happened, only that they had spotted Sakowitz near the side of the road and somehow cornered him. They had realized quickly that he spoke neither French nor German, plus he was carrying a rifle, so they had taken him to their headquarters for questioning.

Questioning. That was the word Pierre used, but everybody knew what that meant. Stiglitz's face was set into a grim mask. Zimmerman looked a bit sick.

Sakowitz, Pierre went on, hadn't said a word. He had that on very good authority, from a man who worked in the headquarters. Not a word. And the local Gestapo hadn't known what to make of him. They couldn't figure out who he was, except that he wasn't German, he wasn't French, and he wasn't friendly.

And the last thing they wanted was word getting out some guy, who might be a spy, or an enemy soldier, or anybody, really, had shown up in the area; and the _really _last thing they wanted was for the guy in question to start gathering information, or doing whatever else he was there to do. So last night, less than twenty four hours after Sakowitz had been captured, he had been taken out into the headquarters courtyard and shot dead.

And that was that. It was a marvel of simplicity. One Basterd down, nine to go.


	8. PeggyO

**Peggy-O**

_Come running down the stairs, pretty Peggy-O._

_Come running down the stairs, pretty Peggy-O._

_Come running down the stairs, combing back your yellow hair._

_You're the prettiest little girl I've ever seen-o._

"Where the hell is she?" Pfc. Smithson Utivich muttered as he shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders shrugged up around his ears against the cold. His hands were deep in his coat pockets, but part of the reason for that was that there was a pistol in there, hidden. Donny had one too. Marguerite had been in the German army office building across the street for what seemed like forever, and the two men were starting to get very anxious. What if she couldn't find the keys? What if she had been caught? Plus, every moment that Donny and Smitty hung around here increased the chance that someone would notice and start asking them questions they couldn't answer. Literally.

"We shouldn't have done it this way. We shoulda just waited for the driver, then punched him out and stuffed him in the back real quick," muttered Donny under his breath. Utivich nodded grim agreement.

"Yeah," he said darkly, then clammed up as two women walked by, followed a moment later by three kids, chatting easily with one another. In French, of course, which made him feel even more out of place. Fuck- what were he and Donny doing here, anyway?

"Shit," Donny exclaimed suddenly. There was a bang from the upper floor of the headquarters building as a door slammed open, and Marguerite was suddenly sprinting down the stairs from the balcony, the cold wind whipping her blonde hair into a frenzy. She raked it back with one hand, jumped the last two steps, and dashed for the truck, as a uniformed man exploded onto the balcony above, shouting incomprehensibly. Donny and Smitty immediately charged across the street, dodging a man on a bicycle, moving to meet her at the truck. The ground floor door banged open too, and three more Germans popped out, yelling what seemed to be alarmed questions to the guy above. They moved to block Marguerite, but she zigzagged, dashing around the back of the truck instead and throwing herself in the passenger door, as Donny and Utivich raced around the front.

Did she have the keys? She must, if she had gotten in the truck.

Donny had nearly reached the three Germans now, and they were moving to intercept him and Smitty, and by now people on the street were stopping and staring- or taking cover- too. One of the Germans planted himself in front of Donny, shouting an order, and Donny hauled back and punched him, while to his right Smitty tackled another to the ground and dashed straight over him, also going for the truck. Donny heard the engine roar to life, and had a brief glimpse of Marguerite leaning over and starting it. Smitty was in now, too, with Donny on his heels, but one of the Germans was still in his way. Donny balled his fist for another punch, swung, clipped the German on the jaw, saw him sway downwards…

And then, just as Donny jumping into the driver's seat and shutting the door, the German popped up again, stuck his arm through the truck's open window just in time, and ground a generous handful of dirt into Donny's face.

"Ow, fuck! Fuck!" Donny exclaimed. He took another fruitless swing out the truck window, hitting nothing. His eyes were squeezed shut, but that didn't help- either opening them or closing them was an agony of irritation. Rubbing didn't help either- it only made it worse.

"Smitty, drive," he snapped, trying to squeeze towards the window. Beside him in the middle seat, Utivich shook his head, panicked.

"I don't know how!"

"Fuck! What the…"

"_Merde!_ Get over." That was Marguerite, and despite her order to move, before either of them realized what she was up to, she scrambled over Utivich and plopped herself down in Donny's lap, where she threw the truck into gear.

"Go. Go, go!" She exclaimed. Her sharp heel kicked at Donny's leg, and he realized that she couldn't reach the pedals. Still batting at his gritty, unopenable eyes, he groped for the gas with his foot and punched it. The truck leaped forward- not that Donny could see a thing. There was more German shouting from the sidewalk next to them, fading, slightly, and then another engine starting up. Shit.

"Oh, damn it…ow…Smitty…what the fucking fuck do you mean you can't drive?"

Utivich was by the passenger window now, sticking his head out it to see behind them.

"I never had to! Shit, three motorbikes," he concluded, pulling his head back in.

"Stop. No, not stop, just…_merde, _slow! Little bit!" Marguerite seemed to be groping for the English words in her panic, but Donny understood that she wanted the brake, and did his best to apply it gently as she whipped the ungainly truck around a corner.

"More…more, more!" she exclaimed now, and Donny switched to the gas again. Motorbike engines vroomed, too close. Donny blinked furiously.

"Ya know…Smitty…one good thing about this…I've got Marguerite sittin' in my lap saying 'more, more'. It's kinda nice."

"Shut up, Donowitz." She elbowed him sharply in the ribs. The truck bounced into a pothole and out again, and Utivich, who hadn't been prepared for it, jounced up and hit his head on the ceiling.

"Ow! Fuck!"

"Fast, Donny!" Another kick. Who knew that girls' shoes were so sharp? Donny laid on the gas some more.

"Damn it…" any effort to clear his eyes just made them worse.

"Hold on, I've got water." Utivich scrabbled under his jacket and came up with his canteen, or at least that was what Donny thought it was. He was unscrewing the top when a new noise cracked out from behind the truck- a shot.

"_Mon dieu, _we are going to die," muttered Marguerite, suddenly even more tense in Donny's lap. Another shot- Utivich shoved the canteen into Donny's hands and scrambled for the passenger window again, his pistol in his hand.

"Just keep driving," Smitty said grimly to Marguerite. He turned around, sticking his pistol out the window, and fired behind them, as Donny leaned over sideways and tried to drip the water into his eyes so that it would rinse them out. He caught glimpses of the landscape flashing by out the window- all brown trees now, not buildings. They had passed out of the town.

"Brake!" Donny pressed it, Marguerite took another corner, and he switched to the gas again.

"We're getting pretty good at this," he reflected from down at the level of the seat. The jouncing of the car seemed to put the dripping water everywhere but his eyes. Smitty shot twice, then whooped with delight.

"Hell yeah! Got him."

"Right on!" Donny blinked and wiped at his face again, finding he could finally open his eyes without pain. He chucked the canteen to the floor and sat up, still blinking, reaching for his own hidden pistol. Smitty shot again. There was a shout and a whooshing metallic crash from behind.

"That's two down!" Utivich was an excellent shot, and a good thing, too.

The last motorbike, though, was coming up fast in the driver's side mirror. It surged forward and pulled alongside, and Donny suddenly found himself and Marguerite looking down the barrel of a pistol themselves.

"Halt! Halt!" the German ordered, his face screwed up in anger. Marguerite squealed and ducked, the German fired, and Donny fired too. It all happened at once- the German's bullet whooshed between Donny and Marguerite and thudded into the truck ceiling, Donny's bullet took the German in the face, and the motorbike spun out in a squeal of metal and a splash of blood, ricocheting off the side of the truck.

"Oh my God." Marguerite's voice was hardly a squeak, but very much to her credit, she kept driving- or steering, actually. Donny, seeing that there was clear road ahead of them now, laid on the gas again and didn't let up till they reached the grove of trees far ahead. That was where they were going- once there, Donny applied the brakes and he and Marguerite, both their hands on the steering wheel now, brought the truck to a relatively gentle stop in a low spot of ground. Bushes and trees hid them from the nearest part of the road- at least mostly- and the rest of the Basterds were around here somewhere. They'd be here soon.

Marguerite shut off the engine and leaned forward on the steering wheel, breathing hard. Utivich scrambled out the passenger door and went around to the back of the truck, wasting no time in inspecting the loot.

"Oh, God…I thought…" Marguerite seemed in shock. Donny tucked his arms around her waist, and she suddenly twisted around to look at him and took his face in both her hands.

"Are you all right? You can see?" She was looking into his eyes with intense scrutiny. He nodded.

"Yeah, just fine now." His eyes still felt gritty, but it didn't matter. "You?" He ran a hand comfortingly up her back and down to her waist again. She was awfully shaken.

"I just…when he shot…" She shook her head and swallowed, her eyes wider than he had ever seen them. Kinda shell-shocked, like.

"Hey, 'sokay, it…"

He didn't get any farther. She suddenly surged towards him and kissed him on the lips, and not just a quick peck, either. Her tongue was in his mouth before he could blink.

"Mmphh!" Hell, he was surprised. But he wasn't going to argue with it. He tightened his grip around her waist, snugging her up against him, closed his eyes, and made the kiss long, easy, and comforting. He waited for her to pull back first.

"That better, babe?" he asked with a cheeky smirk when she sat back. She did look better, more centered, even if her cheeks were flushed and her eyes still wider than they should be.

"I've never been shot at before," she confessed in a rush. Donny took a breath, preparing a sympathetic answer, but just then Utivich yelled from the back of the truck.

"Hey, come see this! Food, gas, ammo- everything! Marguerite, didn't you say your people could use cloth? There's some of that too!"

"Jackpot!" Donny grinned wider, and when Marguerite twisted around excitedly and reached for the door handle, he pulled her back for another kiss first.

**Next Up: Go Tell It On the Mountain (Yes, it will be a Christmas installment! Will feature Wicki.) **


	9. Go Tell It On the Mountain

**Warning: Reference to rape in this chapter.**

**Go Tell It on the Mountain**

_And God sent salvation that blessed Christmas morn._

Cpl. Wilhelm Wicki was not having a good week.

For starters, it was cold. Really, really, fucking cold. Winter had come, and with it snow and ice and freezing wind and earlier darkness and less food. The Basterds didn't camp out all the time, but right now, they were camping out, and they had been camping out for days, as they made a long loop to the east. "We gotta surprise 'em, gotta be places they aren't expecting us," Lieutenant Raine had said. Wicki couldn't argue with that. But the cold was wearing on everyone, and they didn't have any friendly contacts here.

And then there was the letter. Just before they started their trek east, out of their usual way, they had gotten a supply drop, and in it had been some letters. Kagan and Hirschberg each had one from their parents. Ulmer had one from his sister, including a photo of her with some award she had won: Zimmerman had greatly admired it, and then spent all evening quizzing Ulmer about the sister in question. Donowitz, to everyone's amazement, had one from his brother, stationed in the Philippines, written about three months ago, but so what? There had been a letter for Sakowitz, too, which Raine had taken and put away in his things, to return later, if he could. And then Wicki had had a letter from Dorothy.

Dorothy was his girlfriend. Or fiancé, maybe. They weren't really engaged; the question hadn't been exactly asked and answered, but they, and everyone in their town who knew them, had seemed to figure they would get married. Wicki wanted to, that was for sure, and he always figured Dorothy did too. But then there was the letter.

Dorothy was a nurse. That was something Wicki really liked about her; she had a caring spirit, a compassion for others that shone out of her every action, but she was firm, and bossy, even, when she had to be. She would make a great mother.

Except she had broken up with him.

She had been thinking about enlisting for a while, Wicki knew that. But now, apparently, she had, and what's more, she was being sent to some little hospital on some little island in the Pacific. Dorothy didn't put it that way, but it sounded like a shithole. And dangerous, too. She did say that. And she also said that now that she and Wicki were both on opposite sides of the world, and both just as likely to die as not, that even though she sure hoped to see him again someday, maybe they shouldn't wait for each other anymore.

Just like that. That had been five days ago, and Wicki still felt like he had been stabbed in the gut. He couldn't sleep right, food tasted like nothing, and he couldn't stop imagining scenes of Dorothy either in danger, or laughing in his face when they saw each other again. Raine had even taken the letter away from him for a couple of days, he was reading it so much and getting so upset over it. He had the letter back now, and he had disciplined himself not to look at it very often, but it didn't make much difference. He still felt awful about it.

So yeah- a bad week. And now he was crouched under a farmhouse window in the dawn, his rifle ready, and his nose was running and his fingers were frozen and he felt miserable, but at least he'd be scalping one of those SS men in there before too long, and there'd be a fireplace, and hopefully some food.

Inside the house, a stair creaked, and there were some low, sleepy German voices. The Nazis suspected nothing. Their sentry was already dead, silently, out of sight of the main house. The rest of them were going to be dead very shortly- all except one.

"Now!" Raine yelled suddenly, and from their positions around the house, six Basterds stuck their guns inside three windows and fired, once each. Four of the six Nazis inside went down right away, and then Donny kicked open the door, and he, Raine, and Stiglitz jumped into the room just as everyone else charged for the door, too.

"Upstairs," Wicki said shortly, and Hirschberg, Ulmer, and Kagan followed him as he ran for the stairs, dodging Raine just as he kicked a shocked, wounded SS officer off his chair to the ground. Wicki didn't stop to watch; he took the stairs two and three at a time, the other three men on his heels, and headed straight towards the door on the far side of the landing. Hirschberg, Ulmer, and Kagan were already efficiently checking the nearer two small rooms. Wicki threw open the far door.

There was an SS man in here-and Wicki had caught him in a very compromising position. He was on the bed, on top of somebody, and with his pants down around his ankles. He started to turn, sluggishly realizing what was happening, and Wicki could see that the girl underneath him had a black eye, and tears running down her cheeks.

A surge of anger filled him; he strode to the bed, grabbed the man by the collar, and hauled him backwards and off the girl, then kicked him to the ground and smashed his rifle butt into his face. Blood fountained form the man's nose, and he tried to curl into a ball, but Hirschberg, Ulmer, and Kagan had appeared in the doorway, and descended quickly on the German, while Wicki rounded the bed, feeling an unaccounted stab of panic. He half-expected the girl to have Dorothy's face.

She didn't. She was, in fact, hardly more than a kid- maybe sixteen or so, but it was hard to tell. She was dark-haired, stick-thin, and even though she was frantically clutching the sheet to her body now, Wicki could spot bruises, faded and fresh, on her arms and legs, plus that big, purple black eye covering half of her face. She sniffled, balled herself up at the far end of the bed, and regarded Wicki with wide, terrified, teary eyes.

"It's all right- I won't hurt you." He tried to speak softly, to not show any remnant of anger. Behind him, the other three men were hauling the limp German out of the room.

The girl whimpered again, her hands digging into the sheet. She looked like she expected Wicki to take it from her. A little at a loss, he squatted down on the floor, so that he was looking up at her, and set his rifle down on the floor.

"It's all right," he repeated, then said it in German, too, just in case. She gave no sign of recognition to either language.

"Here." There was a blanket, discarded and crumpled, on the floor, and Wicki handed it up towards her. She didn't move- she kept her hands glued to the sheet.

"Don't worry. I won't hurt you. Nobody will hurt you," he repeated. Still no reaction, and it was making Wicki feel increasingly anxious. He needed the reassurance of a response. He needed her to be all right.

She sniffed. Wicki's nose was running again, and he sniffed, too. He held the blanket towards her again, and when she still didn't take it, unfolded himself down from the squat, sat on the very edge of the bed near her, and tucked the blanket around her, covering her up in its warm folds.

And she scooted towards him in a sudden movement and buried her face in his shoulder, silent, but her body shaking with noiseless sobs.

Wicki didn't know what to do- but he put his arms around her anyway and held her, wrapped up in the blanket like a limbless bundle. A few minutes later, Aldo Raine poked his head around the doorway.

"Hell," he remarked, seeing the girl. His eyebrows rose, and he was silent for a moment longer than he had meant to be.

"There's some clothes in the other room that might be hers. And food downstairs," he said finally, and Wicki nodded acknowledgement. He wasn't sure he'd ever get the girl to move on her own, truthfully. Her head on his shoulder was like a lead weight, only damp and sniffly.

He did, though. After a bit, she stopped crying, at least mostly, and he was able to coax her to her feet, retrieve his rifle, and lead her into the other bedroom, where there were indeed some clothes hanging in the tiny closet. She didn't take any of them, though, just stood looking at them dully, wrapped in the brown blanket. At a loss, Wicki took the warmest-looking dress off the hanger and held it out to her.

"Here- put this on, sweetheart- you'll feel better." No response, other than a wide-eyed, lip-trembling look at him. Damn it- what had those assholes done to her? Well, he didn't really have to wonder. He could guess.

"Please- put this on. Then we can go eat. Can't you smell that?" Something hot and edible was downstairs. Wicki's own stomach growled hollowly in response.

The girl heard it. The corner of her mouth twitched upwards, a movement so tiny Wicki wondered if he had imagined it.

"Here- please." He pushed the dress towards her, till it touched her blanket, and finally! Finally she stuck one tiny, grubby hand out and grasped a fold of the cloth. Wicki smiled at her in what he hoped was an encouraging fashion.

"That's it- put it on. I'll just wait outside." He took a step back, retreating towards the door- and she seemed to understand. She nodded, minutely, and let him step out to the landing.

She reappeared a moment later, still swathed in the blanket, but with the collar of the dress just barely peeking out at the top. She had also found some shoes. As she opened the door and came out to meet him, Wicki spotted the sheet she had been clutching balled up in a corner of the room, and noticed for the first time the streaks of blood on it. Bile rose in his throat again. Fuck the Nazis!

It was at times like this that Wicki became very, very convinced that he and the other Basterds were doing the right thing.

"Come on- downstairs_, liebe*_. Some food." He indicated the stairs, but once more, it took his arm around her shoulders to get her moving.

The kitchen was warm, bustling, homey, even. Utivich, bless his goddamn grew-up-in-a-deli heart, had built up the fire and taken charge of the kettle, which was bubbling and emitting a savory odor. As Wicki and the girl came down the stairs, Hirschberg and Stiglitz were hauling the last Nazi corpse toward the door, Hirschberg at the feet and Stiglitz taking the arms, Raine was sitting at the table poring over his map, a cigarette hanging out of a corner of his mouth, and Zimmerman and Ulmer were raiding the cupboards, locating bowls and mugs. Donny and Kagan must be outside.

"Hey! She all right?" Ulmer asked curiously; Wicki shrugged.

"Been better, I bet, but yeah." The girl shrank towards him as they came onto the last stairs, in the midst of the rest of the men, and Wicki tightened his arm around her reassuringly.

"It's all right," he murmured again, softly, and guided her toward the table. She didn't sit until he did, and then sat down so close to him that their thighs were touching.

"Soup's on," announced Utivich, as he began dishing the food up into the bowls that Ulmer had found. Ulmer ferried them to the table, as the door opened and Donny and Kagan stamped inside, their noses and cheeks red with cold.

"All clear. We tied the live one up in the barn," Donny reported, reaching over Ulmer's shoulder to take a bowl of soup from the table. His eyes lingered on the girl for a second, causing her to shift nervously even closer to Wicki.

"English?" he asked quietly, and Wicki shook his head. He reached for a soup bowl and pushed it towards her, his eyes still on the Sergeant. Donny turned to Raine.

"There's two bodies in the barn, too, Lieutenant. Could be her parents, maybe. Not real fresh."

"Looks like they had her for a few days. Maybe more," added Kagan, eying the girl as he took a soup bowl from Zimmerman. Raine puffed at his cigarette thoughtfully, his eyes still on the map.

"Eh. You're on watch, Sergeant, soon as you've eaten." The door swung open again, and Stiglitz and Hirschberg tromped back in, just as everyone else was finding places around the table. The girl tensed up again, seeming almost ready to bolt, and Wicki rubbed her back and "it's all right"ed her again, then pushed the soup bowl even closer to her, filled a spoonful, and held it out. He'd feel better if she ate.

"So that bastard who was with her?" Hirschberg was clambering over the bench to sit down by Wicki, his bowl and spoon in his still-blood-streaked hands. "We cut his dick and his balls off and let him bleed. Fucker's dead now." Stiglitz, crowding in on the other side of the table between Utivich and Ulmer, grunted with satisfaction as he started on his soup.

"Good," Wicki said shortly. Damn it- she wasn't taking the spoon. He moved it closer, more insistently, and to his surprise, she opened her mouth and let him pop in the spoonful of soup like she was a baby.

"Well, boys, our Nazi friend..." Raine took a casual drag on the cigarette. "...now out in the barn has told us that they are expecting some company this afternoon. I suggest we don't wait around here for 'em, but let 'em come up here and see what happened to their pals, then ambush 'em as they leave. That little bridge down in the trees is a perfect place."

"Hell yeah." Donny cleaned his bowl of soup with a huge mouthful, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He set the bowl down and started buttoning up his jacket again, preparing to go out.

"Good grub, Smitty. When we gettin' married, again?"

"Never. I'm promised to Marguerite, didn't you hear?" Donny grabbed a towel and snapped it playfully at Smitty, while Wicki scooped another spoonful of soup into the girl's mouth, then picked up her hand and put the spoon into it. To his relief, she held it.

"Speakin' of girls..." Ulmer eyed her, as she finally moved her spoon to scoop from the bowl. "What are we doin' with her?"

"Yeah, what are we?" More general mutters and questions. The door opened and bounced shut as Donny went outside again.

"I'm workin' on that," Raine admitted. He took another drag on the cigarette, glanced out the window, then back at the map, and Wicki could guess his dilemma. The girl, obviously, would not be safe here, and her family was dead. They were several hours away from the nearest village, and several days away from the nearest village where they had a friendly contact. And more Nazis were expected back here just this afternoon. On the other hand, the Basterds couldn't be burdened with a helpless passenger.

"Lieutenant, we can't just leave her here." Wicki leaned towards Raine and spoke urgently. The movement broke the contact between his leg and the girl's, and she started and scooted back over towards him in response, so that they were touching again. Several of the men exchanged surprised looks.

"Will ya look at that," Zimmerman remarked. Kagan chuckled, seeming baffled.

"Damn, he could do anything he wanted with her," Hirschberg added, impressed. Ulmer turned on him.

"Hey, shut up, Hirschy, don't talk about her like that."

"Well he could, he…"

"Why are you talkin' like an asshole? You…"

"He's just sayin'…"

"Come on, Kagan, you saw…"

"All of you shut up, you're scaring her," Wicki's voice cracked across the table with an authority he rarely used, and the privates fell into a surprised, shifty silence, casting glances from Wicki to Raine. Wicki ignored them; his jaw set, he tucked his arm back around the girl and put the spoon solicitously into her hand again.

"_Essen Sie, Schätzchen,*" _he murmured, close to her ear, and Stiglitz raised an eyebrow at the German endearment, but, as usual, said nothing. At the head of the table Raine pushed back his chair and stretched out his legs.

"There enough for seconds?" A quick nod from Utivich confirmed it. "Hirschberg, go take Sarge another bowl."

"Sir." Chastened, Hirschberg got up and dished up another bowl from the kettle, then was quickly out the door with it and a spoon. Raine picked up the map, folded it, and put it back in his jacket pocket.

"Well boys- I think we're takin' her with us. Hate to do it, but I don't see we have much choice. We'll drop her off somewhere safe as soon as we can. Wicki…" the Lieutenant leaned forward, and Wicki turned towards him, this time without breaking contact with the girl, who was now eating again, something Wicki didn't want to risk disturbing.

"You're in charge of her. She _will_ do as she's told. I don't care if she doesn't understand, you make her understand- got it?"

"Yes, sir." Wicki nodded solemnly, and now Raine leaned back in the chair again, smiling thoughtfully.

"It's Christmas, boys, might as well do a good deed."

"Is it really Christmas?" Utivich blinked.

"Sure is. Dee-cember the twenty-fifth, Christmas Day. Merry Christmas, Jew boys. Hell of another day for killin' Gnat-zis. Hell-a good company to be killin' 'em in." Raine raised his soup bowl in a toast, and all around the table, the rest of the Basterds shrugged, laughed, looked at each other, and one by one raised theirs, too- including Wicki.

_Merry Christmas, Dorothy, _he found himself thinking. It was silly, for a holiday they didn't celebrate, but he thought it anyway, and for the first time since he had gotten the letter, he realized that he was thinking of her generously. No anger, no bitterness, just hoping she was all right and maybe even enjoying some small part of this day in her far-away Pacific island hospital.

Next to him, under his arm, the girl shifted in her blanket and raised her bowl, too- a bit too late as the others put theirs down. She looked absolutely bewildered, but must have sensed the more positive mood- because as she set her bowl back down, she looked up at Wicki and gave him a small, shy smile. Wicki smiled back, and squeezed her shoulder- and the corners of her mouth turned up just a little bit more.

_Liebe= love_

_Essen Sie, Schatzchen= Eat, sweetheart._

_German translations from - I don't speak German, so if anyone can do a better job and wants to advise me, let me know._

**Next up: The Sun is Burning**


	10. The Sun Is Burning

**The Sun is Burning**

_The sun is burning in the sky.  
>Strands of clouds go slowly drifting by.<br>In the park the lazy bees  
>Are joining in the flowers, among the trees,<br>And the sun burns in the sky._

"That's weird." Donny stopped, his feet an inch from the body of the dead Nazi, and looked down at Ulmer, who was busy scalping.

"What?" Ulmer paused, his knife halfway through the job, and looked up, puzzled. Nothing much seemed weird to him- it was his thirtieth scalp and all was well.

"That kraut has patches of different colored hair, see that? Look." Donny nudged the half-scalped head with his boot and turned it slightly to the side. Ulmer squinted, and thought he saw what Donny was talking about- the German's hair did seem to be patches of two colors on the sides of his head. But so what?

"Huh," Ulmer answered, and went back to his work. A few feet away, Wicki finished his and stood up, tucking the blond scalp into his belt.

"Ready, Sarge?"

"Soon as Ulmer is." Donny paced toward the feet of the corpse, pale and bare, and nudged them with a boot-toe, too, for no particular reason. Ulmer stood up, and despite himself, held the scalp up in better light and looked at it again. Yeah- different colors. Go figure. He'd never seen a guy with spotted hair before.

"Ready," Ulmer confirmed, tucking the scalp away. He turned- and just at that moment the bridge behind them blew up with a bang.

"Shit!" Wicki, Donny, and Ulmer all dived for cover, such as there was- just a few trees. Fortunately, they were out of range of the worst of it- rocks and splinters of mortar rained down a few feet away from their trees, but the three Basterds didn't get any more than dusty.

"Shit," Donny repeated when things had settled and the three had emerged from their makeshift shelter, coughing and wiping their faces. Shocked, they walked forward to where the bridge had been, and sure enough, it wasn't there anymore. The remains of its supports hung out over nothing, the river churning forty feet below.

The Basterds had, in fact, meant to blow up the bridge- they had captured some TNT and why not use it? But getting separated on opposite sides of a goddamn canyon had _not_ been the plan.

"What happened?" Donny bellowed across the gap. On the other side, the other six Basterds were emerging from their own cover. Raine came to the fore.

"Goddamn…" he launched into an incensed explanation, of which Donny, Wicki, and Ulmer only caught parts- the wind and the distance shredded away most of the words. Thy gathered, though, that the culprit had been an errant cigarette, and that Zimmerman, the person responsible, was about to catch twenty kinds of hell.

"What do we do?" Donny yelled, throwing out his arms. Climbing down, crossing the river, and getting back up again was out of the question- the cliffs were sheer rock.

"Go down…and…bridge! 'Bout ten miles!" Raine gestured broadly to their left. Wicki, Ulmer, and Donny looked at each other and shrugged. Ten miles? Could be worse. Could be better, too.

"Meet you there!" yelled Donny, and they started off.

But it didn't exactly turn out that way.

It would have been easy enough to just follow the river, except that there was a large village in the way, and it happened to be crawling with soldiers. Wicki wanted to go closer, alone, and try to hear some of their talk, but Donny overruled it- they couldn't afford to split up any further, he said, and besides, it didn't matter why the krauts were there. The three Basterds would just loop around the village and pick up the river on the other side. Easy, no problem.

Except that that didn't work, either.

When they had circled the village, the river wasn't where they thought it would be, and when they finally found it again, there was another busy, well-staffed German checkpoint in the way. They looped away from the river once more, encountered some rocky, hilly ground that forced them to change directions numerous times, and soon they were well and truly lost.

"How far have we come?" complained Ulmer, collapsing on a patch of grass as they stopped to rest. Wicki, sitting on a boulder nearby, sighed and took a drink from his canteen.

"More than ten miles."

"Shit, it's hot." Donny stripped off his jacket and wiped his forehead on his shirtsleeve, then squinted up at the sun. It was only May, and the day had started chilly, but now the sun burned high overhead, as hot as midsummer.

"Where the fuck is a river when you need one?" Ulmer added. He lay back, closed his eyes, and plopped his own jacket unceremoniously over his face, seeming plenty happy to just take a nap in the sun. Wicki, tired as he was, got up restlessly.

"There's water somewhere around here- hear it?" Donny cocked his head, was silent for a minute, then nodded.

"Yeah, somethin'- that way?"

"Sounds like it." Tucking his canteen away as he walked, Wicki started in the direction of the faint bubbling. It grew a bit louder as he rounded a big boulder, and there, on the other side of it, was a tiny stream trickling out from a rocky embankment. It was little, just a narrow thread of moisture, but it flowed away from them, and seemed to get bigger as it went.

Donny caught up with Wicki.

"Huh," he looked down at the little stream, and prodded the soft ground at the edge of it with his toe.

"Well, it must go towards the river, right?" Wicki wasn't all that sure, but he figured it was reasonable, and better than nothing. Donny nodded.

"Yeah, I guess so. Well, let's try it. I haven't got any other ideas. Ulmer!" He called back, and there was a grumbling stirring as Ulmer rose.

"Coming," he assured them, and a minute they were all on their way down the trickling stream.

They walked. The stream wound its way around boulders, in and out of groves of trees, and skirted the edges of plowed fields and vineyards. It grew, its bubbling sound getting louder, and the sun grew hotter, till it seemed they walked in a steamy, lush jungle, the young leaves and flowers growing almost as they watched. Insects droned and darted, shiny as jewels, and the men sweated, wiped their brows, drank water and refilled their canteens in the stream that now swam with tiny minnows. Time passed, timelessly, measured only by the slow, hot creep of the sun. There were no people, except very distantly seen. There was no sign of Raine and the others.

"Hey, Wicki, isn't this near where we left your girl over the winter?" Ulmer had paused, regarding a distant farmhouse that had a distinctive tower-like addition. Wicki shaded his eyes to look.

"Yeah, I think. But she's not my girl," he shook his head and laughed shortly. Ulmer laughed too.

"Yeah, yeah, if you say so. She only snuggled up to you in the tent every night."

"She was a kid," Wicki admonished. Ulmer still looked skeptical.

"She did snuggle up to you, though."

"It was damn cold." Wicki excused that with an abashed shrug, and they walked on, around the edge of a big, stubbly field. There was a faint path that ran beside the stream now, and as they walked, it grew wider, and they went more cautiously. Through the trees ahead of them, they caught occasional glimpses of another farmhouse, a large, prosperous-looking one, growing nearer. Donny held up a hand for a halt, and all three men crouched down in the shelter of two trees, eying the house. There was movement, a person walking toward the barn, then another near the back door.

"I think it's the same place," Donny commented, not sounding entirely sure. If it was the place where they had left Wicki's Pet, as some of the men referred to the skinny girl who had hardy said a word in the week she had traveled with them, the farmers were friendly, and they could get food and shelter. Approaching was always dicey, though.

"Let's get closer," Donny decided, and they got up again, though they proceeded much more cautiously this time, stopping frequently to watch the house for signs of anything untoward. They saw nothing, and proceeded onward, until suddenly, the ground dipped, and the stream opened out into a large pond in a low place, buzzing with insect and froggy noises, its edges clogged with water plants. Beyond it, the house sat atop a hill, with a well-worn path going up.

And there was someone at the edge of the pond. Two someones, actually.

Donny, who was in the lead, froze and gestured urgently for Ulmer and Wicki to do so too. The two people, who had their backs to the three men, were both female, and they were standing on a little wooden platform that extended a few feet into the pond. One of the girls- they seemed to be young- crouched down, pulled something wooden up out of the water, regarded it, then slid it back with a soft splash. A few words in French, sounding disappointed.

"Fish?" Ulmer muttered sideways to the other two. Shrugs all around. Ulmer's guess seemed as good as any. The girls were walking off the little platform, and now started back up the hill- until Donny, shifting his position, stepped unluckily on a dry stick with a crack.

The two girls both spun around, and Donny, resigning himself, raised his arms and stepped forward, trying to indicate he was not a threat. Wicki and Ulmer, following his lead, came forward too- and one of the girls suddenly clapped her hands over her mouth and squeaked excitedly.

"Wicki!" The name popped out of her mouth, and then she was running down the slope, and it wasn't until she was tackling Wicki in an enthusiastic hug that Donny recognized her as Wicki's Pet. She had changed- a lot.

Five months- and living here?- had been good to her. Her hair was brushed, her dress plain and patched, but neat. She had developed more, or else just put on some weight; in either case, she was no longer a kid or a stick. She was a pretty young woman, slight but with curves in all the right places, and she stood with her arms around Wicki's waist, gazing adoringly up at him like he was Superman or something. As Donny, Ulmer, and the second girl all watched, her head darted towards his, and she kissed him on the cheek, then pulled back, smiling hugely. Wicki blushed bright red to his hairline, but hell if he was letting her go. Everyone else exchanged very surprised glances.

"Not your girl, huh?" Ulmer muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Well, fuck. A. Duck," said Donny Donowitz, and that seemed to sum it up.

**Next: The Times They Are A-Changin'**


	11. The Times They Are AChangin

**The Times They are A-Changing**

_Come gather 'round people, wherever you roam  
>And admit that the waters around you have grown.<br>And accept it that soon you'll be drenched to the bone._

_If your time to you is worth savin'  
>Then you better start swimmin' or you'll sink like a stone<br>For the times they are a-changin'._

_The line it is drawn, the curse it is cast.  
>The slow one now will later be fast,<br>As the present now will later be past.  
>The order is rapidly fadin'.<br>And the first one now will later be last,  
>For the times they are a-changin'.<em>

"What do you wanna do after the war?"

"I don't know."

Marguerite's head was resting on Donny's shoulder, and she didn't look up as she spoke. He rubbed his hand up and down her upper arm. They were sitting on the couch, at her cousins' house, and it was getting late.

"Aww, come on, there must be something you want to do. A lot of things!"

She stirred and let out a breath, and Donny sensed that she was troubled. But still, he wasn't expecting the answer she gave.

"I don't think I will see the end of the war. Sooner or later, they will catch me, and I will die."

Donny shook his head, stunned.

"Really?" He half-turned towards her, pulled her into a hug, and kissed the top of her head. She still didn't look up. "Aww, don't talk like that, babe. Hey, you haven't been caught yet, have you?" Still no real response from her. He was getting a bit worried. He and the guys joked fatalistically like that all the time, but it was another thing to hear it, in total seriousness, from Marguerite. He changed the subject, slightly.

"Well, if you haven't got any better ideas, how bout you come to Boston with me when it's all over? My mom'll probably faint when she sees I've brought back a Frenchie Catholic girl, but that's okay. She'll get over it. Whaddya say?" He poked her lightly in the ribs, a good-natured joke- though it wasn't completely a joke, not really. He could see himself taking Marguerite back to Boston. Well, as much as he could see him taking anyone back to Boston.

She chuckled softly and squirmed away from his hand, and Donny was glad and relieved to have cheered her up a little- he was no good at talking about gloomy things, that was for sure. She raised her head from his shoulder and looked at him.

"I don't think you need to worry about your mother fainting. At least about the Catholic part." She broke off, dropped her gaze, swallowed, and took another deep breath, and Donny wondered what was wrong now. She looked back up at him, her eyes huge and solemn.

"I'm Jewish, actually."

"W...what?" The hell? Donny felt rather like a bomb had gone off right there on the couch, deadening his hearing, stunning him and making everything unreal. Marguerite was Jewish?

What the fuck?

He squinted sidelong at the top of her head, almost expecting her to look different, after this revelation. She didn't- she was the same pretty curly-haired blonde she had always been.

But she was Jewish. Apparently.

That changed a whole hell of a lot of things.

Didn't it?

"You heard me." She seemed impatient, almost. She shifted away from Donny, and leaned forward, as if she were going to get up, then seemed to change her mind, and sagged back, leaning against the back of the couch, her arms crossed on her chest. Donny put his arm around her again.

"Pierre and Louise aren't really my cousins," she murmured. Donny shook his head, feeling several steps behind. It was almost like talking with Raine, when he was full of a new plan.

"So...what happened?"

She took another breath and began to speak, slowly at first.

"It was…almost two years ago. My family- we...we were all arrested. Many others, too. They took us to a camp, and we stayed there for a while. Then a train came, and we realized it would take us to the east. To Germany."

To death, in other words. Donny felt a bit sick.

"But..?" he trailed off, urging her to go on. She couldn't stop there!

"We were lined up to get on the train. I stopped to get a rock out of my shoe. When I looked up again, somehow the line had…shifted, away from me..." she made a short gesture, illustrating its location. "And there were some buildings, quite close. And the guard...the nearest one- he was looking the other way."

"And you ran?" Donny's eyes widened. He was always amazed by Marguerite- amazed at her bravery, at the straightforward way she talked about carrying messages, and money, and underground newspapers, and even supplies, right under the Nazis noses, day in and day out, but he had never been more amazed than right now. She hugged her arms more tightly over her chest and nodded.

"Yes. I didn't even think about it, I just...did. And that guard- he was a French policeman, really- he looked at me. He turned his head, and surely he could have seen me, but it was as though…as though I was invisible. He just looked away again. I ran to the side of the building and hid under a…a porch?" She paused, looking up at Donny, and he confirmed that the word sounded all right with a quick nod. He just wanted to find out what happened! His heart was in his throat, despite the fact that Marguerite must have gotten away safe, because she was sitting right here next to him.

"I could still see the people going towards the train- though not very well. I saw my sister, and I think I saw my father- we had all gotten separated in the camp- but there was nothing I could do, and they and all the rest of them…they got on the train." Her voice wavered, and it was only then that Donny realized that tears were dripping slowly down her cheeks.

"There were so many of them. So many I knew."

Donny didn't know what to say. He hugged her tighter, and she laid her head on his shoulder again, and he bent his head over hers, snuggling her close.

"So…so that is why I think I will die," she concluded.

He shook his head, his face buried in her hair.

"Uh-uh, babe. No way. Not after you got through all that."

"Yes." She nodded insistently, and Donny had to sit up straighter or get head-butted in the chin.

"Why?" he blurted out, louder than he meant to. It didn't make any sense, to him. He was mostly deciding that maybe taking her back to Boston, marrying her, and making her happy forever wasn't nearly as crazy an idea as it had seemed at first. In fact, it was the best idea he'd had in a long time.

She uncrossed her arms, then crossed them again, and seemed to be organizing her thoughts.

"After I escaped…I thought, honestly, that I was a ghost. That I wasn't really there. How else did that guard look right through me? How else was I so lucky, that I wasn't captured again, even though it should have been easy for them? It didn't make any sense. For the first…I think three days…I didn't even try to find food. Because I thought I was a ghost, or not real. And sometimes…" she looked up at him and shrugged, sheepishly.

"Sometimes I still feel the same. Like the real me got on that train."

"I think that guard let you go on purpose," Donny opined in a murmur, as he pulled Marguerite back for another tight hug. She nodded minutely, the clock ticked on its shelf, and there was no other sound other than their breathing for a long moment.

"And I think you feel awfully real," he added with a bit of a cheeky smile, sliding his hands up and down. She was warm, and solid, and from what he could tell, certainly not a ghost. He brushed a strand of curly hair back from her face.

"Is Marguerite your real name?" he asked, curiously. She took another of those deep, thoughtful breaths.

"It's Esther. Esther Bernheim. Used to be, I suppose."

"Oh." He smoothed back another lock of hair, ran his fingers through it. Maybe their kids would have curly hair like that. Would it be blonde, or dark like his?

"That's a good name for you. Queen Esther was really brave. Like you."

"Hmm." She was pleased; Donny could feel a smile as he nuzzled her cheek and neck.

"Bernheim's a nice name too…" He kissed her with a bit more intent now, then captured her earlobe briefly between his lips. "…but…any chance you want to be Queen Esther Donowitz someday? Maybe? Maybe?" He drew back, giving her a puppyish look. She giggled and shook her head.

"Queen? You're much too flattering."

"No way, it's just right. Cause I'll treat you like one. Promise. You deserve it. And you'll love Boston. Promise that too. I can't wait to show it to you." He felt expansive, recklessly hopeful- and more and more turned on as he kept dropping kisses on her exposed skin and running his hands up and down her waist. She put her arms around his neck and turned towards him, and he took the opportunity to tip her backwards and lay her down on the couch. She went with it, but seemed hardly to notice- even though he had never done it before.

"Please?" Pressing his luck, he inched a hand toward her breast. She turned her head, found his lips, and ran her hands lazily into his hair as she kissed him.

"All right." He almost thought he had imagined it, at first, but she went on, more confidently.

"If this war ever does end…let's do that. I'd like to see America," she added with a shyer smile. Donny broke into a grin and kissed her again, hard and enthusiastic.

"Fuck yeah, this is gonna be great!" he exclaimed as he broke it off. Marguerite convulsed with laughter, her body squirming in a very distracting fashion.

"What's funny, babe?"

"You…the way you talk, it's funny sometimes!" She was still laughing, and now he did too.

"Ah, yeah, everyone says that. The Lieutenant says that, but he talks funny too. Hey, maybe our kids will have cute little Frenchie accents like you."

"I doubt it," she giggled.

"Ah, who cares, they'll be adorable anyway. Just like their mom." Marguerite giggled some more and kissed him, again. He was on top of her now, their whole bodies pressed together, and she felt small and delicate, and yet as strong and brave as he knew she was, underneath him. He shifted against her, rolling his hips downward, and she arched up into him with abandon and made a small wanting noise into his mouth.

Damn.

"I want to..." he began, breaking off from her swollen lips and breathing hard. She opened her eyes, and to Donny's surprise, nodded.

"Let's...let's go upstairs."

"What? Won't…" Donny half-sat up and gestured towards the kitchen where, he thought, Louise was still sitting up, poring over news reports and who-knew-what-else.

"I think it will be all right." Marguerite sat up, then stood, taking Donny's hand, and they padded in the dark towards the stairs. As they passed the doorway of the kitchen, Louise looked up from her small pool of lamplight. Marguerite met her eyes, and nodded, barely perceptibly, towards the stairs.

Louise nodded back.

And that, apparently, took care of it. Marguerite continued on up the stairs, leading Donny by the hand.

"Watch your head," she murmured, and Donny ducked and felt the ceiling of the stairwell only inches above his head. It was a bit higher when they finished the climb, thank God.

"Here." She led him into a room straight ahead, which was pitch dark, especially after she closed the door. She took a couple of steps forward, there was a click, and a little, dim electric light came on. Donny looked around the room. Small, plain- just the basics. What he would expect.

He'd make sure she had the nicest house she'd ever seen, when they moved to Boston.

"C'mere, Queen Esther. Future Mrs. Donowitz," he murmured, and pulled her back into his arms.

**Next: Wednesday Morning, 3 AM. The last installment!**


	12. Wednesday Morning, 3 AM

**Wednesday Morning, 3AM**

_I can hear the soft breathing of the girl that I love,_

_As she lies here beside me, asleep with the night._

_Her hair in a fine mist floats on my pillow,_

_Reflecting the glow of the winter moonlight.  
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_She is soft, she is warm, but my heart remains heavy,_

_And I watch as her breasts gently rise, gently fall._

_For I know at the first light of dawn I'll be leaving,_

_And tonight will be all I have left to recall._

"Drink this, Hirschy. Make you feel better, yeah?" Utivich held his flask encouragingly towards Hirschberg, who whimpered pathetically.

"Oh, fuck...nothing...oh, fuck." He shook his head, but Utivich put it to his lips anyway, and then he did take a long drink, sagging, pale and weak, back against the wall afterwards. He was barely hanging onto consciousness, but that was probably good. His leg was bloodied up and broken in at least two places, and while the Basterds had made a decent splint and done what else they could for him, he was in a lot of pain, and he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

And they were supposed to meet their contact for the new Operation Kino tomorrow. Not good.

The barn door opened, letting in a gust of cooler night air. Wicki, Donny, Ulmer, and Stiglitz trooped in, Donny and Wicki carrying the shovels. All were bruised, battered, and grubby. It had been a bad day.

Being taken completely by surprise by a German platoon would do that.

Utivich looked up at the others.

"You...?"

"Yeah," Donny answered on behalf of the group, setting his shovel against the wall while Wicki did the same. They had finished the job. Kagan and Zimmerman were buried, relatively decently, in the back.

Two Basterds lost in one day. Three, if you counted Hirschberg, who if he wasn't dead, was certainly out of action.

Wicki and Stiglitz were stone-faced. Ulmer sniffed and scrubbed tears from his cheeks. He was trying not to look at the others, maybe so they wouldn't see him crying. But everyone knew that he was. Zimmerman had been his best friend.

"Where's the Lieutenant?" Utivich added, looking around.

"Went to talk to some people," Wicki said shortly, gesturing in the direction of the rest of the village. He sat down wearily against a stall divider, not too far from Utivich, and examined his blistered hands.

"The girls?" Utivich's voice perked up just a touch. Marguerite and Anne (who was Wicki's girl for sure, even if he never pushed things, and always protested, out of some kind of misguided nobility, that she didn't owe him anything), were elsewhere in the village, making some inquiries on the Basterds' behalf. Utivich hoped they were coming. It would be nice to see them.

"Huh," Donny agreed grumpily. He was rooting around in his pack, looking for something. Stiglitz was listlessly wiping his hands off on a dirty cloth. Even he looked defeated.

It had been a very bad day.

Hirschberg shifted slightly, which made him wince in pain. He was sitting on a nice big pile of hay in one of the barn stalls, which was the most comfortable place they could put him, but that wasn't a whole lot of comfort, under the circumstances. Utivich held out the flask to him again. Hirschberg pushed it irritably away. Ulmer sniffed wetly, still trying valiantly to stifle tears. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

"I know there's chocolate in here somewhere," Donny muttered irritably to his pack. No chocolate revealed itself. Stiglitz shook his head.

"I have none left," he said flatly, as he sat down, too. His head hung at an exhausted angle.

"We should set watch," Wicki said reluctantly. Wearily, he started to struggle to his feet- but it was just then that the barn door opened again.

Lieutenant Aldo Raine entered; he was carrying, oddly, a bucket in each hand of what seemed to be water, warm water- it steamed just slightly. He set the buckets down, as behind him what seemed like a horde of people continued to pour into the barn- well, a horde of women, really. First Anne, carrying a stack of cloths; then Marguerite, carrying a bulky sack that looked soft; then two more women, carrying another, bigger, bucket between them; and then _another _woman, carrying a large covered basket. Donny, Wicki, Ulmer, Hirschberg, Utivich, and Stiglitz all looked on, surprised and bemused.

"What the fuck…?" Utivich murmured, wide-eyed. The strange women set their burdens down, chatting among themselves in French, and throwing smiles at the men. They were all three of them young, or youngish, nice-looking, and dressed to show it off, though their clothes were worn and faded, just like everyone else's. Everyone in this part of France was shabby these days.

"Gentlemen…" Raine held out an arm expansively, pointing to the women.

"Meet Lucie…" black-haired, plumpish, and cute. "…Marceline…" Tall, as tall as Wicki or Stiglitz, with some damned impressive cans. "…and Ninette." Thin, stick-straight hair, lips like pillows. "Did I get that right?" Raine turned to Marguerite, who nodded in confirmation. Donny came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, and she folded her hands comfortably over his.

"Don't worry about watch, we're covered for tonight. We are gonna get clean…" Raine pointed to the buckets of water, which had all been gathered in one location. "…eat some food…" Lucie was bent over the basket, pulling the lid off a pot that was inside. A heavenly soupy smell wafted out.

"…and then we are all gonna get laid."

"What?"

"All of us?"

"Damn, is this a dream?"

"You heard me, boys. These fine ladies are here to do us a good deed. Now there's seven of us and three of them, so we'll have to do a bit of sharing, but…eh, not much. I figger some of you have, er…other arrangements." Raine's eyes fell on Donny and Marguerite, then on Wicki, as Anne tucked herself cozily under his arm and kissed him on the cheek.

"Damn straight," Donny remarked, squeezing Marguerite's waist.

"Get on with it, then. Wash first." Raine gestured towards the water buckets one more time, then retired the floor as general talk broke out. Ulmer and Utivich looked at each other, shrugged, laughed, and crossed over to the buckets together. Stiglitz followed a second later, and soon they were all three stripping off their shirts and splashing water on themselves, while Marceline handed out towels and suggestive looks. Lucie was getting out bowls for the soup. Anne gestured for Wicki to stay where he was, and hurried towel and water over to him, and Ninette, the girl with the pretty lips, descended on Hirschberg. She chatted soothingly at him in French as she wiped down his face and neck, and Hirschberg looked up at her like he was seeing an angel.

"Where did you get them?" Donny asked Raine quietly- but it was Marguerite who answered.

"They're from the…the, how do you say…the brothel." A blush was creeping up her face; Donny could tell even without really looking.

"Yep. Experienced professionals, as you can see," Raine added. "And they're all happy to strike a blow against the Nazis, though this might be the first time they've fucked American soldiers for France."

Marguerite blushed redder.

"You pay 'em?" Donny asked skeptically over her shoulder.

"Hell, yeah. All the cigarettes and chocolate we had. Plus a few other odd bits. Whatever I could scrape up. It ain't nearly enough." Raine shook his head.

"So that's where my chocolate ran off to."

"Yep, and we're gonna do without smokes for a bit, but I figger it's worth it." Raine nodded with satisfaction. Utivich and Ulmer, cleaned up, were proceeding to the soup pot and Lucie's welcoming smile. Stiglitz and Marceline were lingering by the water buckets and seemed to be actually talking- it sounded like she had some German. As Raine, Marguerite, and Donny watched, she said something, arched her bosom invitingly toward him, and laughed. Stiglitz's eyes widened, his mouth twitched into an approving smile, and he put his hands lightly on the sides of her waist and answered back, his forehead almost touching hers. Ninette, who seemed to have adopted Hirschberg, finished dabbing at his face, smoothed his hair back, and kissed him tenderly on the lips. Wicki pulled Anne to her feet and they headed for the soup pot, too, arms comfortably around each other.

Thunder cracked again, closer this time. But things were completely different in the barn now. There were smiles, talk, relaxation. Enjoyment, if only for a little while.

All the difference in the world.

"We can get smokes off the gerries any time," Donny said reflectively. He ducked his head, and let his lips wander over the back of Marguerite's neck. She squirmed lightly in his arms.

"Donny…you're filthy. Go wash first." She turned, gave him a quick kiss, and took a step back.

"I'm going to bring Hirschy and Ninette some soup." She moved off, and Donny stretched his arms over his head, then slapped Raine on the shoulder.

"Yeah. Worth it," he affirmed. Raine, his back against the stall divider behind them, slid down till he was sitting, and tiredly returned a smile from Marceline.

"We leave at dawn," he added, and waved Donny on his way.


End file.
